


Fire to Feeling

by viktoire



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Comrades in Arms, Episode Tag, F/M, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 02:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10504119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viktoire/pseuds/viktoire
Summary: "He could blame last night on the bombs, or even the booze. But this...this is something else entirely."- a different take on the night after Comrades in Arms -





	

It's almost been two hours since Hawkeye started his meandering trek around the compound, seriously considering B.J.'s advice. He knows what he should do, and what he _needs_ to do.

But trying to reason with Margaret Houlihan has never been an easy task for him.

Even now, after months of managing to almost be friends with her, it doesn't make it any easier. There's no simple way to rationalize what happened out there between them. Truthfully, there's a strong part of him that doesn't want to try; should they just pretend it never happened? He's not sure if he can, and that's another hard truth to swallow. Surely they can't go back to the way everything was before, but then where do they go from here? Having to come to grips with the fact that they'd sought solace in each other is enough, but now he needs to make sure she understands where they stand — hell if he knows where that is, but he's got to find out.

Gathering his resolve, he approaches her tent. He ignores the churning in his stomach when he knocks on her door.

Nothing.

"Margaret, you in there?"

God, he'd rather spend the night boring himself to tears with one of Charles' symphonies than deal with this. But he knows B.J. is right and that he really should talk to her, even if only to apologize for treating her so flippantly. How could he have known that it would mean something to her, the unflappable Major Houlihan of all people? And surely it'd meant nothing to him.

Suddenly the door flies open.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?!" she hisses. She's clearly preparing for bed and already in her nightgown, an attempt at modesty made only by a robe clutched to her chest. 

"Look," he walks in without asking — before he can lose his nerve — and shuts the door behind him, "I've been thinking and I just...I need to know you're not upset about what happened out there."

"You think I'm upset?"

He stares at her with an expression of the obvious. When she silently glares back, he continues.

"Pardon me, Major, how silly of me to mistake that slap in the mess tent for your being in a fabulous mood." This is pointless, he's not going to get anywhere with her. He turns to leave but she reaches out to stop him.

"Pierce," she sighs, "I'm not upset, okay? Nothing happened, we both know that. Forget it."

Good, she sees things his way — only why does hearing it disappoint him a little? She turns away to resume unpacking her bags.

"And it didn't mean anything to you?"

"No, it didn't," she throws her dirty clothes into the hamper, "it was just..." she pauses, trying to find delicate words for this but failing. "Just sex. A mistake."

He's silent.

"Why, did it mean something to you?" she counters.

Again, he's silent. Truthfully, he's not sure exactly what he's trying to get out of her, or why it matters. Failing to find his own answers, he questions her again.

"Just so we're clear, this morning didn't mean anything either then?" he tries to reaffirm, for her sake — or at least that's what he tells himself.

She just shakes her head wordlessly.

"Ah, and I take it that explains why you were hanging onto me like some lovesick little teenager?" That was harsh and he knows it, but he just doesn't trust how nonchalant she's being.

"I'd been drinking, Pierce, and horrified out of my _mind_ and-" she turns to face him, "would you just drop it?" Her voice is shaky but rises.

"Maybe, just maybe," the smugness practically seeps through his words, "you're ashamed because you felt something out there, Margaret. And worse, you felt it for me."

She scoffs dramatically at the statement and turns away again, trying to effectively ignore him.

"You're really telling me you didn't feel anything?"

He can tell he's getting on her nerves now. Did he just come in here to interrogate her?

"Oh, would you cut out the ego for once? It had nothing to do with you," she lets out a bitter laugh, "it could've been anyone!"

Alright. If that's the way she wants to play it, he can level the playing field.

"Oh, I'm sure it could have. Any one of many," the words drip with sarcasm, "right, Hot Lips?"

It's déjà vu as she raises her hand to slap him, only this time he's expecting it and blocks her arm in a firm grasp.

"Let go of me," she growls, straightening her back so she's as close to his face as she can be at her height difference. Her eyes are now terrifyingly full of fire, but if he looks deep enough, he can see the wounded hurt behind them. _You deserve a slap for that low blow_ , he admits.

Their eyes are locked, but neither is sure of what's happening. There's no telling who moves first when their bodies crash together with such force that it jolts them both, their lips instinctively seeking each other's to desperately try and make some sense of the words they can't bring themselves to say. Their anger quickly turns to passion. His hands stop roaming her body only to hastily push aside the scattered contents of her bag, sending them crashing to the ground. Her cot squeaks in protest as their bodies tumble onto it clumsily and he effectively pins her between his legs.  
  
The friction between their bodies is nearly painful when he unconsciously begins to thrust against her. He's somehow still fully clothed, though she's clumsily trying to unbutton buttons and unzip zippers at a frantic pace. Burying his face in her crook of her neck, he relishes in the fact that she's had time to shower in the little time they've been back and pauses to take her in; her skin is still so soft from the water, her damp hair looks almost wild, the enticing smell of her perfume wreaks havoc on his senses.  
  
She nearly jumps out of her skin when he traces his lips down to the valley between her breasts. Perhaps it's juvenile, but he can't stop himself from acting on the impulse to mark her, sucking until he's confident there'll be a faint bruise. It could have been simple to forget the previous night, and he knows her earlier remark rings true; it _could've_ been anyone.  
  
But it was _him_. And now he wants to leave a reminder she'll have to face in the morning. Tangible evidence she won't be able to brush off and deny.  
  
He can't tell if her fingers painfully clenching at his hair is encouragement or a voiceless reprimand. He doesn't care either way. When he goes back to kiss her again — it feels like it's been an eternity — she takes his bottom lip between her teeth and bites just enough to draw blood. _Retaliation_ , he muses.  
  
Abruptly, she hooks her arm around his neck and tries to raise her body up. In a few swift movements and miraculously never breaking the kiss, they sit up and she settles on his lap, the nightgown riding up around her thighs as she starts to grind against him in the same rhythm as before.  
  
"Jesus, Margaret," it slips out. Her face is turned away from him and her hair cascades in front of her features, but he sees her mouth turn up in a satisfied smile.  
  
Instinctively, he grabs her hips thinking he should be helping to guide her movements, _though she's doing fucking spectacularly on her own_. Every touch warrants a new sound; his fingers digging into her thighs brings a low groan, and his warm hands to her breasts brings a heavy sigh. It soon turns into a sharp gasp when he finally divests her of the nightgown and replaces his hands, once again, with his mouth.  
  
Despite it all, there was never a doubt in his mind that last night's sex was incredible — but this? Just being with her and having the sheer luxury of knowing they're not about to die? It changes every single aspect. It's an exquisite kind of torture just watching her be in control. When he finally can't bear it any longer, he switches their positions with such speed that it startles her. She lets out a strangled squeal when he finally traces his fingers down to her wetness, and he's getting harder just touching her. Even her little sounds of pleasure are egging him on. His self-touted training in the art of slow, seductive foreplay is tossed aside.  
  
When he slowly but unexpectedly enters her, her breath catches in her throat and the sound alone makes him feel like he's victorious in his pursuit. But nothing compares to what comes next.  
  
"Hawkeye—" a slow moan.  
  
His name's never sounded better.  
  
_'Ha, I told you so!'_ he wants to blurt out like the smug son-of-a-bitch he was a few minutes ago. Only he couldn't speak now if he wanted; she feels too good and he's sinking into her, his head practically swimming from the sensation. They're suddenly moving quicker, more recklessly.  
  
It takes everything in his power to form barely coherent thoughts. Something in this connection is missing, and he's struggling to focus and figure it out when the missing puzzle piece finally clicks: she hasn't looked at him. Not even once. She's trying to fuck him like a stranger.

The night before, there had been fleeting moments when she'd stared so intently, as if she'd somehow never really seen him before. Even in the dimness of that hut, with only moonlight to illuminate them, something about her had unnerved him and he'd ached to look away — only he'd been paralyzed by those eyes. Now he's paralyzed by the mere sight of her under him, writhing in rhythm and tossing her head and cursing under her breath. His heart's liable to jump out of his chest.  
  
_Is he the only one feeling this way?_ He could blame last night on the bombs, or even the booze. But this...this is something else entirely.  
  
She's muttering a string of 'oh, God's and he's looking at her like she's a holy revelation. Grabbing her face between his hands, he forces her to make eye contact. Damn if he doesn't immediately hate himself for it when a wave of guilt washes over him.  
  
From the very first moment he'd met her, he had recognized that Margaret was constantly in control of her emotions, and very rarely did anyone get past the fortress she'd built up. Hell, he'd spent months trying to goad her out of it by relentlessly taunting her. Every once in a while, he'd see a glimpse of something different than the mask of the Major. That was half of the reason (although he'd never admit it) why he'd been so drawn to her the night before; that new and blatant vulnerability had ripped something apart in him.  
  
And now, gazing down at her face between his hands, that reliably impenetrable Margaret is gone again. Her eyes search his now as if she's confused and looking for his true intent, his sincerity. _Had she looked at him the same way before?_ This is _hurting_ her and he never even saw it. Well, not the sex — he notes with a tiny hint of selfish pride that she's clearly overcome with pleasure by that — but him, and his coming back for more when he swore once was too much. He had acted as if he regretted it, so why was he even here now? _Why did he have to be such a jackass?_  
  
He kisses her as a distraction, only this time he deepens and lingers and brings their bodies to a slower pace too. It feels like the only way to quiet his racing thoughts. His touch turns gentle and he grounds himself in the reality of her body beneath his, finds himself seeking the gaze he just tried to escape from. When they lock eyes again, she surprises him with a vulnerable, hesitant smile. He surprises himself when he returns a genuine one right back, and suddenly he's forgotten what he was running from.

"Margaret—" he starts in a low murmur, only he's not sure what he wants to say. _He's sorry? He didn't know he felt this way? He doesn't want to stop kissing her?_

For once, he allows himself the indulgence of just drinking her in with his eyes and his mouth — not for the sake of a joke or for the sake of solace, not even out of lust. But simply because he feels so damned drawn to her. After a long while of slow, purposeful movements, she finally clutches at him and that familiar ache begins to build between them. She falls first, gasping her pleasure and drawing his mouth to cover hers in an attempt at quiet, and he tumbles over the same blissful cliff soon after. Their coming together is just as unbearably all-consuming as the night before, only this time the dynamic has drastically shifted. _Whiplash is more like it_ , he thinks.  
  
Last night, there was only survival. Contact and comfort were borne out of sheer necessity. But tonight, as she curls into him and drifts off to sleep, there's feeling. Perhaps even too much.  
  
Thankfully, he's not in a rush to run from it this time.


End file.
